Frame Work
by justlookup
Summary: A structure composed of parts fitted and joined together. Frostbite
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own Young Justice or any of the charaters. I'm just borrowing them for my own entertainment.**

* * *

It's strange, always being so cold, but not knowing how it feels. To be so similar to everyone else, but completely different.

I glance at the steel watch on my wrist. It reads the same time as it did ten minutes ago.

All my life, I could never tell the time unless I was looking at a digital clock. But watching the unmoving hands behind the frost-covered glass of this wrist watch, I make out the hour of the day. Somehow.

_12:34_

It's always a reminder of that day. A reminder of the _exact_ second I pulled the watch off the limp arm it had once been on. It stopped ticking when it felt my touch. A lot of things break from my touch.

The inhibitor collar prevents me from using my powers, but it doesn't stop me from being me. I'm still cold, inside and out.

A group of people walk past the dim alley, loudly, and I pull my hood up, covering the snow-white hair on my head. I exit the alley and follow them, far enough away to not be noticed, but close enough to fit in. As they cut across the street, I slip away around the corner, and start down a mostly empty block.

I've been wandering all night. Not settling in any one place. It isn't smart to be so open in front of people, a hoodie only hides so much, but being cooped up all day in that musty apartment was driving me crazy. A little fresh air never hurt anyone.

The rent was due a week ago, but I don't have a dime to my name. I steal canned food and laundry detergent from the other tenants, and I don't remember the last time my teeth were brushed. There's a simple fix to this problem. A job. It's what normal people have to make money._ But –_ and I find my eyes drift to the pale purple-grey skin on my hand – _I'm not exactly normal._

I walk by a hunched woman on a stoop. She glances up at me as I pass, making a confused face, her eyes drifting down to the glowing red around my neck. I tuck my head down and stuff my hands in my pocket, quickening my pace. I concentrate so much on hiding everything else; I always forget that the metal collar sticks out like a giant beacon, bringing more attention to myself. Letting everyone see that I don't belong.

As I continue down the cracked sidewalk, the pungent smell of dirty motor oil envelops me. I look across the street and find the source of the smell. It's an auto repair shop. The sign out front is off, but through the windows I can make out a light in the back of the building. I cross the street quickly, and peek inside.

The interior is your run-of-the-mill office space; a row of desks with computers, a waiting room, and potted plants. The light is streaming out from one of the back rooms, down a narrow hallway, casting an eerie glow on the room.

The glass under my palms starts to grow a thin layer of frost. I back away from the window, and with one last glance at the dark room, I continue my aimless wandering.

* * *

It's 12:34 when I open the green door to my one-bedroom apartment. I remove my black hoodie and toss it on the musty leather couch, the only real piece of furniture in the entire place.

On my second day in the Trailside apartment complex, the manager decided to clean out the vacant rooms and dragged all the left-behind furniture to the lobby, where it all sat for over a month as the pile gradually got smaller each day. Along with the big couch, I took a card table and three lawn chairs.

I slump down onto the couch after kicking my shoes off, and pull the knitted blanket over myself. Sleep is a beautiful thing. You just close your eyes and the whole world goes away…

…Waking up, on the other hand, isn't the highlight of my dreary life. Reality, the only thing scarier than any nightmare, comes back at full force when my eyes groggily open and take in the purple walls and stained carpet that is my living room. I move to sit up, and feel the never-ending soreness in my neck due to months of sleeping without a proper bed. I pop my neck before rising from the couch, and stumble over to the door.

The pounding on the other side of the wood gets heavier, and then stops. "Look kid, I know you're in there," a snippy voice shouts, adding in yet another pound on the door, "I don't want any trouble, so if you'd just open up…" he follows up with two more heavy pounds, the last one rattling the door.

I stand quietly, one hand on the dead-bolt, an eye looking out the peephole. The manager, a short doe-eyed man, stands only inches away from the door. My distorted view of him enlarges his temple like a funhouse mirror. He taps against the door and sighs heavily, shaking his head. Soon, he turns around and walks down the hall slowly, giving fleeting glances to my room.

Leaning my back against the door, I close my eyes and let out a sigh of relief. The manager was snooping around for rent. Pretty soon, he'd be slipping an eviction notice under my door, and I'd be back out on the streets again.

I had come to Palo Alto with a pocket-full of cash, and what I had hoped was a clean slate. It's been a year now, the slate is still blank but the money is gone.

I push away from the door and walk to the bathroom, running a hand through my disheveled hair. It's greasy. _When was the last time I showered?_

I stare at myself in the mirror over the sink. I could do with a haircut and a shave too. I open the medicine cabinet and push around the various items, looking for a razor.

There isn't one.

* * *

_Heaney's Garage_.

The green and blue words are painted right on the brick on the front of the building. There's a neon 'open' sign with an arrow pointing to the entrance hanging in the window. The building, for whatever reason, had caught my attention the other night, so when I found myself wandering the streets this morning I wasn't surprised to see I had ended up on this street again.

I cross the street and head into the building, sidestepping a huffing man pushing through the door roughly. The gas odor outside is somehow nonexistent inside, instead smelling strongly of coffee.

I walk past the front desk, ignoring the stares from the two large women behind the counter, and look at the pictures they have hung up. Everyone is in some kind of uniform displaying the company logo. It's hard to tell if the people are models. Their smiles seem impossibly happy. Almost fake. But I've never had a real picture taken, so how should I know?

"Excuse me, sir, did you need something today?" I glance over my shoulder at the two women, both looking right at me. I'm not sure which one had spoken.

"Uhh," my voice is hoarse. It's been awhile since I last said anything out loud. I clear my throat and turn myself to face the counter fully. "I just um," I approach the counter, placing my gloved hands on to the smooth surface, "… I'm looking for a job."

They must realize I'm blue at this point, because both of their eyes widen and jaws drop simultaneously.

"Oh, well," the red-head with oversized earrings replies, "uh hang on." She turns her back on me and rummages through a nearby file cabinet. The other lady, with dark hair and glasses, just continues gaping at me. I scowl at her. The red-head waddles back over with a hand full of papers. She places them on the counter in front of me.

"Here's an application. Just fill it out and bring it back." She even offers a small smile. I reach out and take the papers, giving them a quick glance.

"Thanks." She nods her head, and then returns to her computer. I look back at the wall of pictures, all the smiles, and chuckle.

* * *

"Well," and he glances quickly at the application, "Mr. Cooper, everything looks good." His wide, brown eyes look intently at me. "Very good." I glance away nervously. His desk is cluttered; the only distinguishable thing is the nameplate displaying his full name.

_James T. Mackles_

I had gone home yesterday and completely filled out the application. The minute I woke up today I showered and snuck out of the building, walking straight to Heaney's, where I had to wait for this man for over an hour.

"So I got the job?" I ask tentatively.

He chuckles, and shakes his head. "Not exactly how it works. We'll call you and let you know if you got it before Wednesday."

"And if no one calls by then?"

"Then I don't suppose you got the job." I narrow my eyes at him. He, for some reason, finds this humorous as well and laughs again. I roll my eyes as he wipes away imaginary tears, chuckles finally dying out.

"Heh, I guess we're done here." He rises from his seat and starts heading toward the door.

"You 'guess'?" I mutter, spinning in my seat to see him holding the door open for me.

"Good luck, son." He gives me a wide smile, waiting for me to get out of his office. I look at him for a minute than slowly get up and walk out into the narrow hall. He stands in the doorway, smiling, and as I turn and head to the waiting room, I hear the door shut.

Working in a garage isn't what I saw myself doing one day, but I don't have a lot of options. Auto shops generally hire anyone, no matter how shady looking, as long as they seem able. I can't exactly see a hospital hiring me as a receptionist.

I pass the red-head – her name was Sam, I discovered – behind the counter, and she gives me a wave as I walk out. I bump into a short blonde messing with a cell phone. She walks into the building, only mumbling a quick 'sorry' without looking up. I stand outside the door and watch her approach the counter.

She stands to the side of it, typing rapidly on her phone. Sam doesn't look up from her computer, and doesn't really seem to be aware of the blondes' presence. She suddenly slips the phone into her back pocket and circles the counter, lifting up the divider, and walking behind it. She sits in the vacant chair and turns on the computer.

I turn on my heel and walk away from the building, suddenly feeling a wave of nostalgia.

* * *

**How was it? Let me know if you'd like to read more.**

**~Just Look Up**


	2. Chapter 2

**This story has been disclaimed.**

* * *

There was this girl, slightly older, who I vividly remember from my childhood. Along with her deep chocolate eyes and silky, black hair was this confident attitude and natural charisma. And when I won our first sparring match, she had jumped on my back and ground my face into the dirt. Needless to say, I was in love. And, unlike the other kids I had been forced to train with, she had never disappeared.

Our fathers were partners, as she had explained, so we were often left alone together while our parents did their 'work'. So for days at a time, it was just me and my raven-haired beauty.

And Artemis.

There's a rapid thudding at the door, wakening me from my stupor. I cast my eyes towards the inverted door, and watch it rattle as it's pounded on again. I sit up on the couch and the upside-down room rights itself. I feel the blood rush from my head as I make my way to the door. Judging by the knock, the person is rather tall, but a little on the fat side.

I peek through the peephole, and grin when I see my overweight neighbor clad in his usual food-stained wife beater and purple slippers. I open the door and he shoves his cordless landline in my face before slowly shuffling back to his room across the hall.

I put the white phone up to my ear and lean against the grimy hallway wall.

"_Hi, hello! Am I speaking to a Mr. Stan Cooper" _

"Uh-huh." I reply, already bored with the over excited man on the phone. I begin playing with the metal collar around my neck.

"_Great! Hello Stan, how are you?" _I don't respond, but I'm not sure the guy notices as he continues speaking almost instantly, _"I'm with Heaney's Garage and Auto Parts," _my ears perk up at the mention of the repair shop, _"and I'm calling to inform you…that you got the job."_ I pull the phone from my ear and lean my head back against the wall. I can hear the guys' voice coming from the phones speaker. I let out a breathy chuckle and pull the phone back up and listen.

I start on Thursday when the shop opens. He reminded me to be on time, wear something that can be stained, and to have a positive attitude.

After going across the hall and returning my neighbors phone – and getting my ear talked off by his nagging wife about how I'm not to give out their number for my own usage anymore, again – I go back inside my apartment and begin rummaging through my closet. It's nowhere near full, but I manage to find an old maroon sweatshirt. It's got a few holes on the sleeves and it's missing the zipper, but it fits. I lay it out on the kitchen counter, along with a white t-shirt and a scarf, for Thursday.

The manger stops by at around 12:34 and slips a couple papers under the door. Two are just some of the fliers the other tenants hang up on the cork boards by the mail slots, and the third one is a hand written notice stating that if the rent isn't paid in a week 'drastic measures will be taken.'

I crumple the yellow paper and toss into a dark corner, before plopping down on the couch and closing my eyes, succumbing to the wondrous state of unconsciousness.

* * *

I dig through at least four drawers before I discover a pink bag filled to the brim with makeup. I shuffle through the contents before finding a container of blush and a tube of foamy foundation. I stuff the items, along with a fluffy brush thing, into the back pocket of my jeans, and put the bag back into the drawer.

I turn off the light to the bathroom and make my way back into the adjoining bedroom. The sun is beginning to show between the buildings outside. I climb through the window out onto the fire escape, and set the screen back into place.

Standing on the edge of the fire escape gives a different perspective of the gap from where I'm at to the next window over. When you're climbing out of the window, with only the fire escape, in all its rusty glory, up in front of you, the jump doesn't seem that bad. But here, on the railing facing my bedroom window, you're looking down, and, while the gap may be short, it's a long way to the ground.

I make the jump to the window ledge, and climb into my apartment. I walk into the bathroom, pulling out my new findings and lay them out on the small countertop. I stare down at the foreign objects, tapping my overgrown nails against the counter. I look up into the mirror, and find that the face looking back looks just as confused as I feel.

I pull a torn sweatshirt sleeve up, checking the time, before finally reaching for the tube of foundation. It's cool against my face, and the blue immediately shows through the tan color. After messing around with it for a couple minutes and brushing the red powder across my cheeks, I stare at the face in the mirror.

Normal wouldn't be the word to describe what I see. I'm still my same old pale shade, but it looks different. Livelier. In any case, it's the closest thing I could ever get to normal with a body temperature that suggests I should be dead.

I wrap a scarf around the inhibitor collar and pull on my gloves. Because it's Thursday and, for the first time in a year, I have somewhere to be.

* * *

Raul – which, according to the name tag clipped to his vest, is his full name – pushes through the extra-wide doors heading into the garage from the back hallway at Heaney's. I had just finished watching the mandatory orientation video, which showed the appropriate workplace behavior expected of all Heaney's employees. Temporary or otherwise.

The owner, James Mackles, had droned on for over an hour before the video, making sure I understood that no 'funny business' would be tolerated. Now _Just Raul_ here is giving me a walkthrough of a standard workday for a simple blue collard guy like me.

"I know its October and all," he stops walking and faces me, "but we still live in Cali. Aren't you hot _amigo_?" I cringe. He's too observant. A man in the background shouts out a series of numbers over the whirring noises, and a machine drops down, slicing through a sheet of metal. The man shouts again, and the machine is raised, leaving behind a fresh new car part, which is quickly carried off and a new metal sheet is set in its place.

"I have…bad circulation." I mumble to him. He looks skeptical, but nods his head and continues the 'tour', pointing to machines and explaining what each one is for. Ten minutes in, I begin to wonder if I should've taken notes.

* * *

I find her in the staff lounge during my twenty-five minute break on my fourth day. She's standing in front of the soda machine, rattling around a handful of change. Her hair is long, very long, the ends almost reaching her upper thighs. She starts dropping the change into the machine and presses a button. After a few rattling clanks, a bottled green tea rolls out into the slot on the bottom.

She spins around on her heel after grabbing the bottle, which nearly falls from her hand when she sees me leaning against the door frame. I glance at the name tag clipped to her long-sleeve shirt.

_Artemis Crock_

"Whoa, didn't hear you come in…" her eyes meet mine, and her mouth hangs open.

Back then, sparring with all those other kids, I had a winning streak that actually made my cold-hearted father proud. No one, not even _my_ Jade, could defeat me.

Artemis was different. I could feel it the first time I laid eyes on her. When the match began, she turned her back to me and scrambled up a nearby tree, gallivanting off into the deep forest. It had been such a shocking sight, I never even heard her stalk up behind me until I was being punched in the back of the head, and my wrists were being bound behind my back. I was eleven.

She was only nine.

I watch as her body tenses up, her strong jaw clenches, and her navy eyes narrow. I stand up straight and start towards her, quickly halting when she jumps into a defensive pose. Her eyes rove over my body, searching for any weakness, any breaks in my defense. They land on the scarf tied loosely around my neck. I slowly reach up and unwrap it, revealing the glowing collar. She inaudibly gasps at the sight. Her head snaps up and she meets my gaze. My face is calm, and I watch as her eyes soften and her body relaxes.

"Long time no see." I say, offering her a small smile.

"What are you doing here?" If I didn't know better, I'd think she was growling out her words. But even as a girl, she'd had such a deliciously raspy voice.

"Working." She frowns at the nonchalant shrug I offer.

"In Palo Alto. What are you doing in my town?"

"Last time I checked 'your town' was back in Gotham." She crosses her arms over her chest, and looks away from my gaze. She lets out a humorless chuckle.

"So I'm supposed to believe you working here is a coincidence?" There's a fire in her eyes, when she looks back at me, and I recoil. I'd seen her use that look on people before, but she'd never once looked at me in such a resentful way. I begin to wonder what changed. Besides the obvious.

"Believe what you want." I walk into the break room, keeping a safe distance between us, and stop at a machine with fresh fruit displayed behind a glass screen. I fish change out of my pocket and slide it into the coin slot. Artemis is quiet behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to check that she is actually still in the room.

"Why here?"She starts as I grab the banana out of the machine. I hop onto the counter and work on peeling the yellow fruit.

"I guess it just made sense." She sighs and leans against the opposite counter, and I'm thrilled, seeing her drop her guard around me like that. I take a bite out of the browning banana.

"'Made sense,'" she murmurs under her breath, then louder, "Alaska makes sense for you, Cam."

I cringe at the nickname. Of course she'd call me that, she doesn't know. She notices the cringe, and like clockwork, her head is thinking, and she suddenly gets this look on her face that says she's knows so much more than I think she does.

"You were released from prison two years ago,"

"You keeping tabs on me?" I give her a shit-eating grin, which she ignores.

"No. Green Arrow told me." The way she says it makes the banana settle uneasy in my stomach. And the look she's giving me is no better. There isn't anything there, in her eyes. Like she's staring at the trash someone littered at a park, she's not angry that the trash is there but angry at what it means. She's looking at me like I'm nothing but garbage that is soiling her space because someone was too lazy to do anything better with it.

"So what, you thought I'd come after you or something?" She shrugs, and looks down at her feet. And I realize why she's different. The old Artemis, the one who could kick my ass in five minutes tops, never shrugged, never bit her nails or broke eye contact. She was sure of herself. Confident. So different from the woman in front of me now.

"I don't know what I thought." And again, the expression spread across her face has changed. And I feel bad for her, for just a moment.

I toss the peel across the room at the garbage can. It hits the side, but then falls to the floor. I glance over at Artemis. She's facing the can, her eyes set on the discarded peel. She's twirling a stand of hair around her finger.

"You look different." She says. I glance up from her hands and meet her eyes. She has her head tilted to the side, a goofy grin spread across her face. And it's adorable.

"You look the same, well..."and I let my gaze drop to her chest, and she scoffs and crosses her arms over her breasts.

"Don't be gross." And the situation is so similar to the one before, five years ago, on the bench at the courthouse. It was the last time we'd spoken to each other, until now. And I remember that I'm supposed to be angry at her, the first time we speak to each other since our dads split up, and she's only there to get info from me for her new group of goody-goody friends.

"But really, Cam you – what?"she noticed me cringe again, after hearing my name. I shake my head and look down at my feet.

"Nothing." And I don't need to look up to see if she's looking at me. I can feel her heavy gaze. "Just, I don't really go by that anymore." I glance up at her through my eyelashes. She has annoyed face.

"If you expect me to call you Icicle, then you – "

"No!" I interrupt her, waving my hands dramatically back and forth, "Please don't." She nods her head, and I love how smart she is because I'm not sure if I can explain any further and she seems to get it.

The break room grows silent for a good while before she clears her throat and explains that she has some work to do. I can only nod my head and follow her out the door. She goes right. I go left.

Our dance always worked that way. We'd train for hours, just the two of us. No parental enforcement necessary. Because whenever the two of us entered that clearing in the woods, and our eyes met, the world fell away behind us. Our dads didn't matter, our legacies meant nothing. She was just Artemis, and I was Cameron. There wasn't good or bad, just our dance. She went right, I went left.

And it was beautiful.

* * *

A long splinter had burrowed into her palm while she climbed the ladder up to the attic. Artemis was never so careless as to make such rash decisions without any kind of plan. She leaves things like that to Wally. But, for reasons she doesn't even want to begin to think about, she found herself racing up the old wooden ladder minutes after she arrived home from work.

The rickety old thing was the kind that collapsed down from the ceiling with the pull of a string. It was one of many little things Wally and her had found so charming about the one-story house. Now, as she digs the god-forsaken piece of wood out of her hand, Artemis thinks that maybe old wood isn't that pleasant after all.

She flicks the piece of wood onto the floor and presses her fingers against the bleeding hole on her palm. She hates the fact that she's up here. She isn't expecting to find or gain anything from snooping through boxes filled with silly things she thought were worth keeping from her childhood. But she wants something, anything, to understand the storm of emotions raging inside of her.

She sits down in front of a tote she recognizes as her own, and snaps the lid off. There's a brown bear laying right on top, its nose a little smashed in from the lid of the container. She picks it up and stares at its face for a moment, smiling. She leaves it sitting in her lap as she continues searching through her things. She pushes away books and random papers filled with drawings and cursive gibberish. She finds a trophy she won from a Spelling Bee she doesn't remember being in, and old grade reports.

She's looking in a yearbook from her senior year at Gotham Academy when she shifts her leg and kicks the tote in front of her with more force than she would have liked. It hits the shelf behind it, and a glass object falls from the top, smashing open against the hardwood floor.

"Shit," she mutters as she tosses the book and bear into the open tote. She rises to her feet and bends over to inspect the broken item. She recognizes it almost immediately. It was one of those generic, ceramic piggy banks, the kind where you had to smash it with a hammer in order to get the money out. It finally met its intended fate, Artemis muses, as she picks up the large, pink shards.

The papers catch her eye as she stands. They must have been shoved into the piggy bank because they are folded tightly and mixed with the change scattered on the floor. She sets the broken pieces of ceramic pig down and picks up the papers.

As she unfolds them, Artemis realizes that this was the something she had needed to find. Its three folded notebook papers and half of a filmstrip of pictures from one of those photo booths they used to have at malls.

The two small pictures are of her and Cameron. She remembers this day well, it was the first time she was ever left alone with Cameron. Instead of staying locked up in the safe house, the pair had snuck out and went to the Star City Mall. Artemis rubs her finger along the jagged edge of the filmstrip, the place she had cut it in half with old kitchen shears. She wonders if he still has his half, stowed away somewhere. _Probably not_, she thinks as she slips the filmstrip into the front pocket of her jeans.

She turns her attention to the notes. The first she looks at is a page of random doodles, done in two different inks. They're silly little things, and Artemis wonders why her 10-year-old self had found this paper important enough to keep. The next page goes with the first page of drawings, she assumes. The same ink colors are used in the notes. She recognizes her neat print, in a metallic blue ink, and what must be Cam's messier writing, in black.

The notes start off normal, Cameron stating that '_this meeting is boooring'_ and her agreeing. It leads to little topics, jumping all over the place from _'your dad has a food stain on his shirt'_ to '_is division really that hard?'_ It finally ends, to Artemis's surprise, with Cam asking if he could hold her hand, and her metallic blue _'YES'_ in all caps.

Artemis presses the paper against her chest, not sure why her cheeks are flushing. She breathes in deep, thoughts racing. Because it's impossible, really. She shouldn't feel anything for him. He's no good, never had been. But her mind – her body – is singing a different tune.

When she saw him today, everything came rushing back. And no matter how wrong it all felt, she had sat her desk for the rest of her shift in a stupor, memories running through her head like a home movie, all of them involving Cam. And, to be honest, they were some of the best times she had had.

She chews on her lip, wishing that her heart would beat at its normal pace again, because this is Icicle. He's a criminal by choice, and the last thing she needs is her silly feelings for the white-haired boy to come back. Not now. Not after all she's invested for her and Wally to work.

She's about to crumple the papers in her hand up and throw them into a dark corner of the attic where they'll rot away and disappear, hopefully taking these stupid feelings with them, when a fiery head pops into view from the ladder.

Wally's warm smile raises her guilt, and she stuffs the papers out of sight and grabs the broken pig pieces, walking towards him.

"Hey babe, attic diving?" He raises a brow at the ceramic chunks in her hand.

"Uh yeah…don't ask." And she brushes past him, clunking down the ladder and into the kitchen.

She's pulling out a plastic bag and wrapping it around the pig when she feels him standing in the kitchen. She didn't hear the ladder shut, and she feels unease pool in her gut.

"What's going on, 'Mis?" She tosses the bag of shards into the trash and turns slowly to face him. She lets out a long sigh.

"Nothing Wally." He's about to protest, but she cuts him off, "My mom called and wanted to know if I had my birth certificate cause she couldn't find it. I do."

"And the pig?" He nods his head toward the trash can. She glances back at it, not meeting his gaze. She never felt right lying to him like that.

"Dropped it on accident." All Artemis can think is that this is the exact opposite direction they should be heading in. He deserves her honesty. So she builds up her courage and looks him in the eyes. "Really Wally, I'm okay." And she thinks the smile she pastes on her face is pretty convincing, because his features soften again, and he walks over to her.

They embrace, and as she stands in the kitchen with Wally's firm arms around her, Artemis looks at the trash can. She thinks about the piggy bank resting inside it, broken in pieces. She thinks about the pictures in her front pocket, the pocket pressed against Wally's thigh. And she thinks about that last piece of paper, sitting up in the attic.

Because somewhere between her finding the papers and fighting with Wally, she remembered what was on that last note.

* * *

**If your reading, and you go 'woah' at all, please feel free to leave a review and say so. That'd be pretty awesome. And you're a pretty awesome person;)**

**~Just Look Up**


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